


The Final Letters

by dechagny



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I Write Like This Ship Needed More Angst, Love Confessions, Love Letters, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 18:47:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8544967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dechagny/pseuds/dechagny
Summary: The Queen is sent a box of letters addressed to her from Brocket Hall after the death of Lord Melbourne, spanning from April 1848 to the month before his death. A week after the death of her friend, the Queen finally has the strength to read the last words her Lord M ever wrote to her.





	

The small, tattered, plain box had been sitting at the end of Victoria and Albert's bed for the better part of a week – staring at her whenever she went to bed and staring at her again whenever she woke up. It was the first thing her mourning eyes saw, even before her dearest husband's morning-weary face. Victoria knew what was inside the box but she couldn't bring her fingers to pull open the top and tear open the envelopes that lay piled up untidily on top of one another. Victoria once had a similar box of letters, though her constant correspondence with Lord Melbourne after his resignation as Prime Minister was seen as highly inappropriate and she noticed the way people whispered. Lord Melbourne had moved to Brocket Hall and he was not coming back – it had taken Victoria a long time to come to terms with it. It had been Albert's suggestion that the letters from Lord Melbourne and her own unsent letters should be disposed of or filed away at the very least because of their sentimental nature. He hadn't suggested it in malice, Victoria knew that, but it had been a number of years since Melbourne's resignation and Victoria and Albert's fourth child had been born. The letters surrounding her had been weighing down on Victoria like a ten tonne paperweight – she knew she had to move forward and she was able to do so with Albert's kind hand. Victoria's letters were sorted, stored, and put out of mind.

But now this new box had turned up. Victoria remembered Brodie's solemn face as he slowly brought the box forward with his head bowed five days ago. Her eyes had glazed over and her chest had felt numb - but she could not, and would not, cry. The tears pricked in her icy eyes like a thousand tiny daggers but she blinked them away with a stony expression, leaving Brodie to walk away again without a word.

December the first had never felt so cold. Victoria's skin was practically frigid to touch despite the heavy bed sheets on her and the warmth of her husband beside her, but she ignored it as the call from the cardboard box became too much to bear. With barely a sound, she slipped from the bed, letting her bare feet touch the unforgiving wood of their bedroom floor. The box was lamenting to her, reminding her that a week ago today, her Lord M had passed away. These letters were all that she had left of him.

Victoria quietly knelt with the box on the other side of the bedroom as the first December sun slowly began to peak over the distance, allowing her some light to read through the window. Her heart beat loud, her fingers trembled, and there was a feeling of foreboding in her chest as her hands began to pull open the top of the box. Anyone may have thought she was opening Pandora's Box, not a box of letters from a dead man. Victoria reached inside, pulling out the handful of the yellowing, dusty envelopes – there were seven letters in all. She chose to read the one on the bottom of the pile first, leaving the rest stacked neatly beside her in the order she wanted to read them. Every single envelope was addressed to her.

She ran her fingers over Lord Melbourne's messy cursive handwriting, and even over a few of the ink splodges from his pen before turning the envelope in her hand and carefully tearing it open with her silver letter opener. It had been folded three times and Victoria opened every fold whilst holding her breath.

* * *

 

_April 1848_

I understand that you have fled London for the safety of yourself and your family from the threat of Revolution. It is with this piece of information in mind that I find myself being highly unlike myself and praying to our Lord. I have been praying for yours and your loved ones great security in these trying times, especially for you and your newest daughter. Congratulations are in order once again on the birth of your sixth child. If the Princess Louise grows up to be anything like her mother then she shall be a woman of great repute and a credit to Your Majesty and to Hanover house.

It is with the greatest of delicacy that I tell you how I have missed your correspondence as of late for I do not wish to make Your Majesty feel obliged to answer, but instead that I tell you with the utmost honesty, as you have always encouraged me to do, how I feel about our situations. It fills my heart to imagine that you had been saddened with news of the decline in my health and it is often on days when I am most unwell that I wish to see you, hear you, speak with you...even just to read your letters. They have been my most favoured of bedtime reading as of late, but I digress.

Once again, I am wishing you the greatest safety away from London.

_Viscount Melbourne._

* * *

  _May 1848_

The peach blossoms at Brocket Hall are quite marvellous this year – perhaps the best that I have ever seen them in my many years here. It brings with them a welcome sense of peace that has been missing here for longer than I care to admit to you. Peach tones in nature have always reminded me of Your Majesty, as they offer the opportunities to be soft and strong simultaneously and I have always admired these elements in you. When I see the peach blossoms, you are here with me.

My health continues to serve me as well as it can and there is still as much life in me as ever, though, I find, fatigue is trying to make me a firm ally. I shall not let it.

I hope that you are well and that you continue to be so, as hearing otherwise would not serve my failing heart well.

_Viscount Melbourne._

* * *

_June 1848_

Writing once a month to you has become my favourite part of the month – though I know you will never receive them as I know I shall never gather the strength to send them. Be damned what court might think of our correspondence as I shall never be ashamed of being your friend, and those you surround yourself with should never make you feel ashamed for being mine. Perhaps they were merely envious of us.

The sun is growing warmer and I am turning my hand to new talents to express myself now that my face is struggling to do so for me. Poetry, I think, will never be my forte, though this could be from my bias against poets themselves. I entertained the idea of leaving a poem in this envelope for you, however I could not bring myself to do it as it's not quite the me you once knew, and hope, loved. I would not like that image of me you have to change. This is one more reason that I am half glad we do not see each other and that we no longer send the letters we write. Or at least, I write. I am sure you have your hands full running the country, with Albert, with your six beautiful children (I hope that you shall always treasure them), to be writing to an old friend who is already half dead.

I do not know if Your Majesty remembers the charm that you had sent me in 1839 which has stayed upon my ring of keys all this time until fairly recently. It has been a most prized possession. As of late, it has either been in my pocket or at my bedside as a token to keep you with me, especially through this year as I have felt so awfully unwell. As you wished for this charm to keep me from evil, I hope you would be glad to know that no evil has befallen me since autumn 1839 apart from my illness, and I believe this is entirely due to this gift. I'm sure Your Majesty understands the difference between evil and unwellness.

I pray that evil keeps away from you also.

_Lord Melbourne._

* * *

  _July 1848_

It is with a heavy heart that I begin this letter with mention to the troubles in Ireland at this time. Their plight, which I am sure you will agree, is a sad one and one that I hope can be rectified without an exceeding amount of loss of life. You are a compassionate woman and I believe that you shall do right by all in your Kingdom and help your people to survive and thrive through the toughest of times. I have also heard of the revolt in Sri Lanka with all the unpleasantness that has come with with it, but I am sure your advisers and Albert have given you more than enough advice on what should happen next. If I were with you, my support for you would be immeasurable.

This, I am sure, has been a trying month for Your Majesty and you barely have the time for much that brings you joy, unlike I, who finds himself with an abundance of time and not enough to fill it with.

London Waterloo station's opening is a triumph for you and no doubt for that of your husband, who I am sure is really quite thrilled. It must be said that seeing Albert happy makes Your Majesty happy, and therefore myself is of a happy disposition also. However I must say that I miss seeing your smile and making you laugh.

_Lord Melbourne._

* * *

  _August 1848_

First of all, my deepest sympathy and respect goes to those who were lost in the Moray Firth fishing disaster this month and for the families of those who died. It is a shame that these months bring so much tragedy to these United Kingdoms, but it is clear that these fishing boats are not fit for purpose in severe weather conditions and action must be taken to prevent another tragedy.

As the months roll on, the more I find myself ailing. My memory is not what it used to be, though, I remember that it has been ten years since you first called me your Lord M. This is a memory I shall cling to for dear life as mine own begins to slip. Ten years can go by so fast and yet it feels like I have been without you for a thousand. Each month I write to you is like writing to you after another ten years...

It is becoming increasingly difficult for me to eat and my God, I can almost see myself wasting away before my very eyes like the flowers in winter I once cultivated! (I say 'almost' as the vision in my left eye has finally dissipated.) I'm glad you cannot see me or will ever read this because I do not wish for you to spend your evenings or days worrying about your Lord Melbourne.

My heart is made joyous by thinking of you, and for a while I can imagine that I am young and with you riding in the woods day after day once again. How I miss taking our horses out for the afternoon, walking side by side and talking about anything that came to mind. You always looked so gracious and beautiful and I have never found someone who looks better in a hat than I do until I met you. You look beautiful in green, with blushed cheeks and glowing skin from the exercise. More than once have I wanted to reach out and touch your cheek.

I hope that you and your family are well.

_Melbourne._

* * *

  _September 1848_

Summer is dying and so my voice is dying with it. You may recall that it is difficult for me to eat and swallow, but now it is now the same struggle to merely talk. The left side of my face is numb, my arms are weak, and I often forget where I am. I know, Your Majesty, that I have been a cynic for the majority of my life but now I am regretting this as I slowly begin to feel myself slip away from this life. Writing is starting to take its toll on me but I still try for you, and for my own sanity, since I need something to occupy my thoughts with and my letters to you do that better than I could ever have imagined. I am glad to have never stuck with the poetry.

I am not scared. I had been all those years ago when I first became gravely unwell, but I have had more time than perhaps I should have been given to come to terms with the inevitability of my own death. With the loss of feeling in my body, my difficulties in doing the most mundane of tasks such as eating and writing, and my faltering vision and strength, I can only hope that I do not suffer the illness for too long – I have suffered without you in my time of need, so for that to be extended for longer than is entirely necessary would be an act of great evil that not even your charm could deflect.

Jealousy for your strong rule and strong health stirs in me, but I am quickly able to stamp out that fire and put in place great joy instead. It would kill me a hundred times over if you were ever unwell. I, vaguely, recall the day your life was almost snatched away and I laid awake worrying about you for weeks. I wanted to come back to you and make sure that you were safe, but I knew that Albert would do this for you and my help would have been unwelcome and surplus.

I pray that the Lord and Your Majesty forgives my misplaced envy.

I end this letter wishing once again for your good health as I leave you now to rest my weary soul and body.

_Melbourne._

* * *

 Victoria felt her heart beat fast when she realised that the next letter was the last one, and was dated most recently - a mere two months ago. She pushed the previous letters back into their envelopes, trying not to let the obvious decline in Melbourne's health, mind, and dexterity upset her too much, though her hands were shaking as she thought about her friend's final months alone in Brocket Hall, tucked up in his bed or his chair, feeling helpless and feeble and yet so full of admiration and love for her. Victoria swallowed the lump in her throat twice, then looked up to her bed to see Albert still sleeping on and occasionally letting out a small snore as he rolled over on to his back.

The read letters were carefully put back inside of their box as the last one lay delicately in Victoria's lap, her long dark hair tickling the envelope as she moved with swift, continuous movements so as not to wake her husband. Victoria willed the birds outside to stop singing just in case they woke him. The handwriting on this envelope was sloppy with smudges and ink spots covering the envelope which felt thicker than the others in Victoria's hand. She pulled the letter from its envelope with her heart in her mouth.

* * *

_October 1848_

My Dearest, Victoria,

I feel the weight of the world upon my exhausted and thinning shoulders for the first time. In my youth I had been healthy enough to keep all from falling upon me – I forgave my wife for her affair and stood by her for the longest time before we physically could not keep patching up what was left of our marriage. I survived the death of my two children. I survived the stresses and struggles of being your Prime Minister. Then I survived the biggest heartbreak of my life – your marriage to Albert. I did not have a choice but to survive this, as your happiness would always come before mine, and we could never be together. Perhaps if you were not my Queen then our lives could have been so different. So happy. I think in another life we acted upon our feelings for one another and let the opinions of parliament and England be damned. I hope in that life we are happy. However, I will not be able to survive this illness for much longer – I have tried and tried but I am almost ready to give in.

You know, as I have said it often in these letters, that I am pleased that you are happy with a husband who rightfully adores you as I have done. I am pleased that you have been able to give your heart without reservation in the way that you could not do with me. In all my time with you I have only wanted for your happiness.

Happiness is not something I can say I own as I write you this letter. My hand does not want to grip the pen, my words come out slurred as though I have been drinking all morning and night and my body aches. On occasion I can feel myself slipping, but I am able to bring myself back because I have not yet finished this letter. Death feels soft and comfortable, so, for brief intervals at the very least where I begin to slip, I am no longer in pain. I do not wish to be in pain any more but I must write to you one last time, or my soul will never rest.

Your charm, over this month, has gone from my bedside table to my hand. It is a challenge to hold it but it keeps me company and keeps me filled with hope. Death is not evil, so I know this is not something I am trying to use to keep me alive, but rather keep me tied to you. With every laboured breath I breathe I squeeze that charm as tight as I am able to, hoping that you might sense my end of days and I can see you again. I want to see you again. Let me be selfish in death, I beg you.

I highly suspect that this will be the last letter I will be able to write to you before I pass. It has taken me a number of days to write even as far as here and I am so often forgetting all that I want to tell you, which, as I am sure you can imagine, is a source of great frustration for me.

It is rather rare that I have regrets in life but I would like to lay out those that I do have in this letter for you, as they are about you. I suppose that you know of what my feelings were for you, but I must tell you them outright now whilst I still can.

I am, and have always been, in love with you. My heart has beat for you and you alone for the past ten years. My regret in this instance was not telling you this in person. My regret here is not looking you in your dazzling kind eyes and professing my love whilst holding your hands – I should have done this a number of years ago, but my professionalism, and your own professionalism, barred me from doing so. A modern tragedy, I think.

My second regret comes from never visiting you again. I should very much have liked to have looked upon one of my favourite faces one last time before I take my final breath, whenever that may be. Perhaps I will be able to solve this problem – I do hope so, Victoria. I would certainly like to see a friendly face before I am laid to rest, and to hear you call me 'Lord M' once again.

My third regret comes from never sending you these letters. Even though I may not have received any responses from you, it would have soothed my mind and heart to know that you have read my words and known my feelings. However I know it would have been unfair to saddle you with these letters and emotions after so many years of absense.

Even though my legs are paralysed and my hands are beginning to seize up also, I do not feel pity for myself and I pray that you do not feel it also. When you hear of my passing, I would like you to feel relief for my condition. Do not cry for me and our lost correspondence because you have done your duty to the country as you should as Queen. I admire you greatly for that.

But now it is time to say my final goodbye to you. I wish you the greatest love, happiness, and health throughout the rest of your life, for I do not wish to meet you in the beyond any time soon. In 1839 you sent me something to protect me, and now, almost ten years later, I return it to you, so you might also be protected even further. Consider this to be my final act and my final gift to one of the greatest women I have ever had the pleasure to know and love. I am with you always, even in death.

Goodbye, Victoria, no matter how ill I may get over the coming days, weeks, or months, I shall never forget. I love you with all my heart.

All my love,  
_forever your Lord M._

* * *

 A single tear dropped from the Queen's eye and splashed on to the letter in her hand, making the ink bleed into the page. She raised her hand to wipe her eyes, trying not to cry like Lord M had asked her not to and took a few shaky breaths. Victoria dropped the letter beside her on the floor to pick up the envelope instead. She turned it upside down, letting the metal and wooden heart-shaped charm fall into her hand. She stared at it, unblinking, then curled her short fingers around it until her knuckles turned white as she touched her fist to her heart.

Albert sat upright in bed as Victoria's anguished cry ripped through the bedroom. He could see her small frame shake on the floor as more tears fell from her eyes. Victoria looked up at Albert with her sad eyes as he came to be by her side, kneeling on the bare floor. He slipped an arm around her and Victoria cried into Albert's shoulder, clutching as tightly as she could to Lord M's final gift.


End file.
